The Miracle Cars

How to make $21 million in 7000 easy steps.

October 2003 By JOHN PHILLIPS

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Almost overnight, Rose Nichols sold $30,000 worth of cars—was selling, more accurately, the promise of cars. "They went to my brothers and sisters, three members of the church, nine other relatives," she says. She handed the proceeds to her son and to Gomez, who reminded her that no cars could be delivered until the estate cleared probate. Soon after the first batch of Miracle Cars was snapped up, Gomez revealed he could get more, that the estate was overflowing with vehicles, and not all of them were cheap "errand cars," either. Rose continued selling—wasn't so much selling as simply answering the phone and taking orders. Before long, she'd sold $1 million worth. It was wearing her out.

The proceeds were supposed to be funneled to a non-interest-bearing escrow account at Chase Manhattan Bank. Instead, the funds flowed mostly to Robert Gomez. No one was alarmed—he was the heir and would get the money sooner or later. It turned out, however, that Gomez was using the funds to pursue his dream of becoming a pro gambler. He'd already become a fixture at the Bicycle Casino in nearby Bell Gardens, one of five such Southern California card parlors.

In September 1998, Gomez showed his will to James Nichols. It was sloppily and hastily handwritten on a store-bought "E-Z Legal Form." In part, the will read: "I, Robert Gomez, declare James Randall Nichols as the executor of my estate."

"I looked it over and agreed to serve," remembers Nichols, who then, oddly enough, represented himself as the executor of Bowers's estate. "I was to handle all the refunds and keep the records straight. I was told I'd get a 12-percent fee and a $5000-per-month salary. It was more like eight hours a day, so I quit my day job."

Rose Nichols wanted to quit her day job, too. She was sick of selling autos out of her modest little house. It was thus a minor miracle when a Memphis woman named Gwen Baker called late in 1998. Halfway across the country, the 48-year-old Baker, a correspondence school "doctor of divinity," had heard about the Miracle Cars. She hoped to purchase one herself—wanted a Jaguar but settled for a Cadillac STS. More important, Gwen Baker made it known she was a towering figure among Midwest Baptists. If these Miracle Cars were intended as blessings for the devout, then it was surely she who could corral a pool of potential purchasers.

Nichols and Gomez liked the idea. They hired Baker as a "finder"—essentially as a sales manager who could also set up a central office for operations. "So they gave me lists of cars," Baker recalls, "and said I'd get 17 to 18 percent [commission] on what I sold. Mr. Gomez said he had the approval of the [estate's] board of directors to do this. Later I was paid $30,000 per month in salary. I was told to take it out of what cars I sold."

Baker attacked the job like a woman possessed. She was organized and kept impeccable records. So much money began flowing into her Memphis office that Nichols flew there seven or eight times just to pick it up. On one trip, he had his picture taken as Baker handed him an envelope stuffed with $200,000 in cash. Baker began calling Nichols and Gomez her "godsons."

Baker was most effective when she worked through the pastors of churches, letting them tell their parishioners about the cars for sale. Sometimes, though, she spoke at church functions herself. At one such gathering, Baker said: "We're working diligently on the probate, but it's such a large estate it's not an easy task. I guarantee you God has an agenda to open His hand and release these assets, but remember, you can lose the Promised Land by grumbling and complaining. It's not easy to turn over your hard-earned money to me. But once God has put His stamp of approval on this—as He has—forget about it and wait. Thanks for purchasing cars. God wants you to prosper. God wants you to roll."